


Little Gesture for a Big Man

by viktorcerise



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Guns, M/M, Romantic Gestures, well it's not very christmassy but merry christmas to whoever reads this lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 08:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5532176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viktorcerise/pseuds/viktorcerise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's tall, rugged, and taciturn, and Spy wants to be his - but how do you approach a man whose idea of a good time is shooting guns and delighting in slaughter?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Gesture for a Big Man

The spy had to admit - he was starting to feel things for Heavy. 

His fellow BLU teammate was handsome, in his own way. Broad-shouldered, tall, with enormous forearms and biceps, and just enough padding to soften his shape and give him a tummy in certain positions, the Heavy was the poster-child for the Communist ideal worker. He could heft that minigun - designed and built by him - for hours at a time in the hot sun or blowing snow. His jaw was magnificent and the spy secretly loved the way he had to shave twice a day, another testament to his rugged masculinity. 

And it wasn’t just the thought of riding the Russian cowgirl with his cock rocking against that soft overhang, or a quick groping swordfight in an abandoned building, but the…well, romantic part of it. Spy had overheard the Heavy one evening, alone with the television muted, reading English poetry aloud. Despite the staccato dictation and rumbling accent, the Frenchman found himself blushing under his mask. He wanted to hear that deep, deep voice murmuring sweet nothings in his ear and to hear it drop half an octave in pitch so the vibrations shivered down spy’s spine to his cock. Heavy seemed like a man to rely on, to trust. And spy was ready to feel safe and protected for once in his life.   
But how to approach? Things were getting ridiculous. Heavy smiled at him one day and it left him feeling full of fluttering birds and sunshine, and at any other time he’d be disgusted with himself for feeling so sentimental. But right now? He craved the man’s affection like he craved nicotine. 

A man like the Heavy would appreciate flowers or a box of chocolates, but maybe he’d fail to see the romanticism of the gesture. Even after poking around the Medic’s files behind his back, Spy failed to uncover anything about the Russian’s life outside of Mann Co., save for the precious little he already knew of his mother and sisters. And aside from the German doctor, Heavy didn’t really go out of his way to spend time with any of the other members of the team, occupying his downtime by constantly cleaning and tweaking his weapons or burying himself in enormous Russian tomes of literature. 

The former reason was why he found himself here now, at Heavy’s usual haunt outside the Medic’s clinic, struggling to take apart the shotgun Heavy carried as a sidearm. Spy cursed under his breath. It wasn’t as if he’d never cleaned a gun before - he trusted nobody but himself with his own weapons - but it’d been years since he’d disassembled anything bigger than a handgun. 

He was about ready to fling the whole piece across the room when he finally managed to crack it. Soon the first few pieces were apart and the spy was feeling pretty pleased, polishing and oiling and becoming so absorbed in his work that he didn’t even hear the Heavy until the giant cleared his throat.

“What are you doing,” he said. It wasn’t a question - Spy got the feeling that he could give no answer to satisfy the big man. “Why are you touching Ludmila.”

The spy glanced down at the partially cleaned, partially taken apart gun. 

“You named this Ludmila?” he said. 

Heavy walked over and pulled the part out of Spy's hands. His brow was furrowed and his jaw set.

“I do not understand,” he said, shooing the Frenchman to one side of the couch and sitting next to him. In moments the rest of the gun was in pieces, which Heavy scrutinized individually. “I have told you all many times not to touch my guns. Was expecting little Scout to do something like this, but you?”

“I didn’t mean to anger you,” Spy said. 

“Then what do you want?” Heavy sighted through the barrel and sniffed. “Spies do not do anything unless they want something in return.”

He found himself at a loss for words at that, a hot blush creeping up under his neck. What had been his plan here? Clean the Heavy’s shotgun and what, leave him a note with some flowers? 

“Unless you are RED spy here to sabotage,” Heavy rumbled. It sounded like a warning roll of thunder in the distance. 

At that, the spy raised his hands placatingly. 

“Please,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I am no double agent.” 

Ludmila was already back together and the Heavy spun her around one finger.

“She does not feel different,” he said to himself. “Need to take her to shooting range later though.” 

“I was cleaning her,” spy confessed finally. “I…worry about everyone being able to defend themselves on the battlefield.” 

Heavy looked at him sidelong.

“What,” he said, “do you want, little man?”

Now colour flooded the spy’s face, but it was clear nothing but the truth would satisfy the giant.

“I…wanted to do something nice for you,” he said. “I do not know quite how to say it.” 

“You need favour from me?” Heavy rolled his eyes. “Do not need to do this, can just ask if you need help lifting something.” 

“No! No, Heavy, I…” Spy swallowed and found himself staring at his hands in his lap. “I like you, Heavy.”

Moments scraped out as the Russian processed the statement. Spy wanted to be struck by lightning. 

“You want to be friends,” Heavy said.

“No - well, yes - Heavy, I want to be yours,” he blurted finally. He reached into his jacket and flicked open his cigarette case to take refuge in burning tobacco. “I…want to be with you.”

Heavy blinked. 

“You. Want to be…my boyfriend?”

In one horrified moment, spy realized he may have miscalculated and that the Heavy might raise a fist and pulverize him. Then he noticed the man was shaking, one great hand on his plush stomach and the other on his knee. 

“You?! And me?!” Heavy burst into gales of deep, rumbling laughter, holding his sides and throwing his head back. “Is good joke! Very good!”

Spy felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine. Heavy wiped away a tear and clapped him on the back, nearly bowling him over. 

“Good joke, little spy,” he said. “And you did good job with Ludmila. I am impressed.”

“Oh, good,” said the spy faintly.

The heavy watched him for a moment and the Frenchman shut his eyes and prayed for the earth to swallow him whole. He heard the Russian's breathing change, and when he looked, the bigger man was frowning a bit. 

“You are serious,” he said. Spy nodded once, eyes and face burning as if he'd shaved with hot sauce. “You are wanting to…?”

The silence fell between them like a curtain and the spy was scrambling in his mind for ways to salvage the situation. 

“But we are...well, you are so small and I am...” The heavy gestured at his own physique and gave a titanic shrug. “Giant. And how do you know that I am liking men in the first place?”

“I...do you like men?” The question was out of his mouth before he could bite it down.

“Da.” 

The relief washed over him and the spy almost went limp. At least he didn't have to face being beaten by a furious straight man again. 

“I didn't know,” spy said. “I...only hoped.” He turned to the gun on the table and the rags and oils used to clean her. “I did not think you would be one for flowers or serenades.” 

“Very thoughtful.” Heavy's hand was on his back again, just resting there. “I am sorry. I am not used to being approached.” 

“But what do you think? Might we spend some time together, soon?” 

“We are spending time together now.” 

The spy held his breath, expecting a rejection, but then the heavy let a smile quirk at his lip. He relaxed again, shifting closer, the heat of the heavy's body bleeding through all the layers of his suit – like a human furnace, almost. Heavy put his great arm around the spy's shoulders and brought him close, and the Frenchman rested against the soft padding over heavy's latissimus dorsi. 

“You do not think me too small?” Spy said.

“Only if you do not think I am too big,” said Heavy, and as he broke into laughter again, the spy felt a warmth blooming in his chest that made him want to sing like a bird.


End file.
